A Meeting by the River by Christopher Isherwood

Author:Christopher Isherwood
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Penelope darling,

high time for another communiqué!

I’m afraid you may have found my last letter a trifle hysterical? I admit that it was written in a mood of mild panic, the mood in which you say to yourself, can I possibly stand this? And of course the answer always is, you can if you must. Already I’m in a state of psychological convalescence, sitting up and taking a keen interest in my surroundings. That doesn’t mean that I like them any better!

I do, however, very much like the monks of this monastery—the few I’ve met, that is. Collectively they are part of the trap into which Olly has fallen, but you can’t blame them for that as individuals, and anyhow they are quite adorable. I suppose I’d expected them to be hypocrites or, at best, mock-humble and mealy-mouthed. But now, having got to know them a little, I’m already prepared to believe that they’re completely on the level—chiefly because they’re so civilized about their beliefs. They seldom refer to them unless you ask a direct question, and there’s never the least hint of their wanting to convert you—hypocrites would be much more aggressive and emphatic! They are soft-voiced and playful and gently teasing, but they’re far from being mealy-mouthed, especially when the conversation gets on to Red China’s ambitions or Pakistan’s claims to Kashmir! They never become mystically grave or tiresomely inscrutable. The plump ones chuckle plumply at my jokes, the skinny ones titter. They all seem to enjoy their food and they belch after it. Now and then, one of them exclaims what at first I thought was ‘Shiver! Shiver!’ but later discovered to be a pious ejaculation, ‘Shiva! Shiva!’ Being with them is delightfully cosy.

How do they feel about me, I wonder? When I try to put myself in their position, I realize that they must regard Oliver as a tremendous catch. This isn’t something I’m imagining—I’ve seen them looking at him with beaming proprietary pride! And is that so surprising? I don’t, of course, know what kind of followers Olly’s Swami had found for himself in Munich before Olly came along, but they must have been a pretty stodgy lot of middle-aged transcendentalist krauts. No doubt the Swami’s brothers here had already regretfully written off his mission to the barbarians as a flop. And then, at long last, he captures and posthumously presents them with this unique marvellous creature, this his one and only genuine disciple, who has cooked for him, looked after him, abased himself before him in utter devotion, and is an Englishman into the bargain! What a typically Indian victory, a victory without violence! The child of the conquerors is brought, literally and willingly, to his knees! Not only does he embrace the religion of the conquered, he’s ready to accept a position of authority, publicly, as one of its ministers—this must actually be, from their point of view, the greatest triumph of all. (However, what I don’t think the swamis can possibly understand is that Olly would never, under any circumstances, have become a Christian priest or minister.

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